


New Beginnings, Old Methods

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes abhorred legwork. Sports as well. And especially Winter sports.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Beginnings, Old Methods

Mycroft Holmes abhorred legwork.

His life took place along well-trodden paths; the Diogenes Club, his house, Downing Street, Buckingham Palace, occasionally Sherlock’s and John’s flat.

For two years, he hadn’t visited, during the time Sherlock had been hiding and everyone (including, to his mortification, the British Government) had believed him dead, but now that he was back and his faithful companion had once more joined his side, Mycroft found he dropped by rather more often than he had before.

But the point was: he abhorred legwork. Any unnecessary movement, really, and sports especially. This might be the reason why he had always had slight problems with his weight, something Sherlock never grew tired of reminding him, but at least he was not running around chasing after some ideal of fitness he would never achieve.

He had only set foot in a gym once in his life, and then it hadn’t been for exercise but because a Minister had not thought about taking his phone with him during his lunch break and there had been a crisis.

The new Minister of Inner Affairs, sadly, was rather a sports enthusiast, and preferred talking about his hobby rather than politics.

Therefore, Mycroft had had to endure many a useless half-hour listening to a monologue about the pleasures of running or tennis or working out, and any winter sport there was.

He appreciated the irony, because if there was one thing Mycroft Holmes abhorred more than legwork and sports, it was winter.

Winter when clothes and shoes got dirty; winter when the snow fooled people into thinking the World was somehow renewed simply because a white blanket was hiding everything.

And the cold, of course. He would never like the cold.

Sherlock was oblivious to the weather, always had been. Mycroft, however, preferred rooms with an adequate temperature.

Maybe not completely oblivious. Or at least he hadn’t always been.

Until he was four, Mycroft hadn’t really known what to do with his younger brother; their parents didn’t appreciate “childish games” and, no matter what Mummy might say, Sherlock was too young to learn anything of importance yet (Sherlock had disagreed and already begun reading through the library, Mycroft taking care to remove books that he deemed not fit for his age). So he had done what he would do later: watch over him from a distance, made sure he had enough clothes and ate and slept.  

And then, there had been the winter when he’d just turned four and he’d burst into Mycroft’s room babbling about the snow and that “other children have fun throwing it around” and somehow, the British Government still didn’t know how, they had ended up having a snowball fight in the garden.

Mummy and Father were at some charity event and would never know.

It had been a beginning, a beginning of seven years as brothers, Mycroft teaching Sherlock and making him laugh and the younger Holmes trying to impress his brother with his experiments and deductions.

That had come to an end when Mycroft had left for university, and now he was as alone as he had always been.   

Once again, he had had to come up with an excuse not to go skiing with the Minister (if ruling the country could be called an excuse) and he was not in a particularly good mood.

He was glad to be at home, although it did feel empty. That probably had to do with the Christmas festivities at 221B, which he had attended over the last few days because Sherlock had unexpectedly invited him.

He had been surprised when Sherlock called. Taking into account that his brother hadn’t yet forgiven him for leaving to go to university or forcing him to detox in his house against his will, he had not expected that he would ever want to talk to him again. Not after his betrayal. Not after he had given Moriarty everything he needed to destroy his life.

But Sherlock had changed. Mycroft doubted that many people noticed, but he had. In some ways, he was still the same consulting detective; insulting people he deemed “idiot”, shooting then walls at 221B when he was bored, causing explosions in whatever lab he happened to be in.

And yet –

He was more patient, and not only with the people who mattered to him, like John and DI Lestr – Greg, Mycroft reminded himself, the man had told him to call him by his first name at the funeral of a very much alive man – but also with witnesses, forensic techs, clients, even people who ran into him on the street.

Sometimes, he even kept his deductions to himself – until he could tell John, that was.

And he had invited Mycroft for Christmas and they hadn’t insulted each other.

They hadn’t talked either.

They didn’t talk anymore, and sometimes Mycroft wondered if it was Sherlock’s way of punishing him, being polite but evasive. Yet it wasn’t his brother’s style.

No, the truth was more simple: Neither of them knew how to react around the other. There were too many resentments between them, there had been ever since he had left for university, and now there were even more, two years of hiding and a betrayal.

He had had no other choice. He had to do what was best for the country. His job always came first. Like Sherlock’s always came first.

And yet –

His brother could have saved his reputation that day.

Instead, he chose to save his friends.

Mycroft had had the feeling that Sherlock wanted to talk a few times over the holidays, but he might just have been fooling himself. Sherlock had a life, friends. People he could trust. He wouldn’t be desperate for a new beginning, like Mycroft admitted to himself he was in the dark hours in his lonely house.

Mycroft poured himself a glass of brandy and sighed. It was more than likely that he would hear from his brother sometime soon, demanding a case because he was bored. Sherlock always got particularly annoying at the end of the year, when everyone else took a holiday.

He was surprised when there was a knock on his door.

People knew not to knock on his door. There was only one person who would.

As he had predicted, Sherlock stood before him.

“It’s snowing” he stated, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  

And then he understood.

A new beginning.

Like the one all these years ago.

He grabbed his coat and reflected that, even if it shouldn’t prove to be so, at least he could tell the Minister that he had finally found some pleasure in Winter Sports.  


End file.
